Vendetta
by avidbeader
Summary: Sherlock must find out why Molly Hooper is one of a select group of people being targeted before the assassin can finish the job. Set between "The Blind Banker" and "The Great Game". Hints of future Sherlolly.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I don't own the BBC or "Sherlock" and I'm definitely not Steven Moffat. Not Mark Gatiss either, which would be more fun. Just playing with their toys.**

**Explanation: I've been following "Sherlock" here and there since it began, but series 3 found my shipper button and began pressing it repeatedly. This particular story is set between "The Blind Banker" and "The Great Game" and is full of future Sherlolly hints.**

**Apologies: Sorry, fans of my ****_Harry Potter_**** fanfic, "The Perils of Innocence". You can blame this story in part for how long it took me to get Chapter 27 finished.**

**Expectations: Five (short) chapters of this are done. I think it will eventually run 7-10 (short) chapters. I will update what I have every week, but once I hit Chapter 6 there may be a longer gap between updates. It's all about the work schedule.**

* * *

The usual scents of death and sterilizing chemicals permeated the morgue as they always did. This time they hid the presence of the flowers until Molly re-entered the room in street clothes and was halfway across the lab to her desk to check messages one last time.

She was startled enough that she spoke aloud in the empty room. "Lilies? Really?"

She plucked the card from the plastic clip that had been thrust into the pot. The neat script of an anonymous florist read, _Something to brighten your day! Hope you like them —Sherlock_

Molly frowned at the note, which didn't sound at all like anything Sherlock might have dictated to the florist. But it was just possible he'd simply said, "Write something cheerful, would you?" and the florist had complied.

At any rate, it was a moot point. Lilies might be a teasing comment on her job, but they were poisonous to cats and she would not risk Toby. She'd take them to the main nurses' station or reception and let them enjoy a bit of colour and freshness. She tossed the card onto her desk and picked up the pot. It was heavier than she expected and she handled it carefully as she left the morgue.

* * *

Sherlock stood up from where he had been kneeling next to the body and looked at Lestrade. The detective inspector looked pale and it was no trouble to deduce why.

It wasn't every day that one saw one's own potential death in a blurred mirror.

The victim was another D.I. in Scotland Yard, an Inspector Finnegan, and someone Lestrade had worked with before. Even more unsettling was the fact that Finnegan was dead because someone had booby-trapped his house. The stairs leading to the cellar had been cleverly sawn and supported at angles to make it look like the full staircase was there in the light from the kitchen. Finnegan had gone charging down, undoubtedly to fetch coal against the unexpected cold snap in October, found half a staircase instead of a full one, and fallen onto a pallet with a number of sharp spikes driven through it. It was clear that Finnegan had tried to free himself before bleeding to death.

Sherlock was uneasy, and could not pinpoint why. It was more than dealing with Lestrade's suppressed mourning for an acquaintance. There was something about Finnegan, something he needed to sort. It was connected and he needed to find a place where he could delve into his mind palace and find the threads.

His mobile buzzed, notifying him of a text. He pulled it out and glanced at the sender, ready to delete on sight.

It was Molly Hooper. This was potentially helpful – perhaps he could get Lestrade to send Finnegan's body to Bart's and be able to sort out what was bothering him there. Molly's presence in the morgue almost guaranteed him some space in which to think. She of all people knew best when to leave him alone.

**Just wanted to thank you for the flowers. –Molly**

Sherlock looked at the message and frowned in complete bafflement for a moment. _Flowers? What on earth is she on about?_

* * *

The receptionists were agog over the flowers. Molly felt quite pleased with herself for finding so elegant a solution. And the receptionists, not knowing her very well, were less likely than the nurses to take the mickey out of her for getting flowers from her hanger-on down in the lab.

She frowned as she headed for the main entrance. One would think a man as bloody clever as Sherlock would remember that lilies were poisonous to cats and send something that she could take home and display for Mrs Edison upstairs. Roses or an African violet or even some fresh mint if he wanted to be funny about Toby's addiction to catnip.

And there was still the question of why he would send flowers in the first place. If they were meant to thank her for allowing him access to the MacGillivray corpse before cremation so he could test the effect of the angle of a blow in how ribs broke, that had been weeks ago. There had been no opportunity since then to supply him with any other requests from his running list.

She paused in the waiting area to send a text thanking him, just to annoy him with her promptness. Her grandmother would turn in her grave at the idea of a thank-you not written on monogrammed stationery, but if one wanted to ensure that Sherlock saw a thing, one texted.

She hit "send" and tucked her phone back in the pocket of her coat. Moving toward the exit, she put on her gloves and scarf against the unseasonable cold. Her phone beeped to signal an incoming text and she pulled it back out to read the message.

**I didn't send flowers –SH**

Molly paused at that, suddenly uneasy. Why would anyone send her flowers in Sherlock's name?

The sudden explosion behind her threw her into the wall, striking her head and sending her into unconsciousness.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Thank you very much for reading! Constructive criticism and Brit-picking are welcome. Diatribes against my ship or other flames are not.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: I don't own the BBC or "Sherlock" and I'm definitely not Moffat. Not Gatiss either, which would be more fun. Just playing with their toys.**

**Explanation: I've been following "Sherlock" here and there since it began, but series 3 found my shipper button and began pressing it repeatedly. This particular story is set between "The Blind Banker" and "The Great Game" and is full of future Sherlolly hints.**

**Expectations: Five (short) chapters of this are done. I think it will eventually run 7-10 chapters. I will update what I have every week, but once I hit Chapter 6 there may be a longer gap between updates. It's all about the work schedule.**

* * *

Sherlock stormed down the hall to the makeshift reception area, ignoring the chaos around him as doctors and nurses tried to triage the injured. His rapid-fire brain calculated at least seventy-five casualties and almost certainly death for those who had been within a few yards of the bomb.

He felt Lestrade's hand on his arm. "Sherlock, there's Molly!"

Molly was lying on a stretcher, unconscious. There was a chart at her feet; judging from the entry, the intern three stretchers down the line had just checked her vitals. Concussion was almost guaranteed and she was on the list for X-rays because of a suspected fracture to the collarbone. Sherlock knelt next to her and took her hand. It was cold, colder than it should have been even accounting for the normal post-trauma dip in a patient's core temperature.

Lestrade had been speaking to a nurse and came back to lean over them. "The blast damaged the electric supply. They've activated generators, but most of the power is going to keep life support up – no heat right now. More generators are on the way, but it's going to take time."

Sherlock shrugged off his wool coat and tucked it around Molly. The residual heat from his body would help her stabilize and he could manage for a while. "Give me a moment." He pulled out his mobile and his thumbs began flying across the keypad.

**Bart's explosion probably worse than initial reports suggest. Backup needed to restore electricity, manpower needed to shift patients elsewhere. Short-term heating a priority –SH**

"I've just alerted Mycroft. That should speed things up."

Lestrade checked his watch. "If you'll be all right for a bit, I'll liaise with whoever's here, see what they've learned. I may have to leave and come back – I need to at least make an appearance at Dame Hillandale's wake."

Sherlock's head snapped up. "Dame Hillandale? The Honourable Mrs Justice Eunice Hillandale?"

"Yes, hadn't you heard? She died last week with an overdose of some sedative she was taking."

His instincts were now screaming at him that something was very, very wrong. He waved Lestrade off and sat next to Molly, careful not to jostle her. He leaned forward, elbows on knees and fingers to temples, willing his ears to ignore the noise and bustle around him, and began to sort the threads.

_Finnegan, D.I. at Scotland Yard…Hillandale, magistrate for the Crown Court...two noted officials in law enforcement dead within a week of one another…not a whiff of corruption around either of them…factor in Molly…where would she have crossed paths with them…Finnegan the first red flag…he came to Bart's about a case nine months ago…Molly did an autopsy for him…Hatley…the Hatley trial!_

Sherlock jerked into awareness, sweeping the area for Lestrade. The inspector had been speaking to a uniformed officer, and was jotting something down in a notebook. Sherlock was next to him in a few quick strides.

"I've got it! The Hatley trial!"

"The what? What are you on about?"

"Finnegan, Hillandale, the attack on Molly, it all fits."

"Wait, how was Molly attacked?"

"She texted me just before the bomb went off, thanking me for sending her flowers. I didn't—"

"Of course you didn't," Lestrade snarked.

"There must have been a bomb in the vase." Sherlock began ticking off on his fingers. "Molly provided medical evidence at the Hatley trial, Finnegan was the lead investigator, Hillandale was the presiding judge. What about the prosecutor, Ellison Davies, or the friend who turned Queen's evidence?"

Lestrade simply stared at him for a moment before recovering from the onslaught of Sherlock's immense memory. "How do you…how long ago was this?"

"Nine months. January. Surely you remember? The press made such a scandal of it, not that they had to work very hard at it. Isabella Hatley, society belle, found responsible for the death of a poor, anonymous young man through drugs and erotic asphyxiation. Hillandale made an example of her with a ten-year sentence, of course, being such a battle-axe against drugs."

Lestrade nodded as the pieces began to come together. "Yes, yes. And Hatley managed to kill herself in prison in August."

"Start with Hatley's family. Either someone is a natural handyman, has done a lot of research, or has hired a very clever hit man or two." He was about to go on when he heard his name and turned around. Molly was stirring, one hand fingering his coat.

He dropped to her side and took the hand, pleased that she was a little warmer. "I'm here, Molly."

She blinked and tried to focus on him. "Card from the florist…on my desk…"

"Good girl. Anything else? Very quickly, as you need to rest and one of these doctors is sure to scold me for bothering you."

"Pot was heavy."

"A potted plant, not a vase? That would make it easier to conceal a bomb. Anything else?"

Molly began shaking her head, then stopped with a wince. "Check for me…"

"Check what?"

"Shoulder. Is it broken?"

Very carefully, Sherlock pulled down his coat, shifted her jumper, and unbuttoned her blouse far enough to bare her collarbone. He traced the ridge of it, careful to keep just the right amount of pressure, and noted the lack of a bump or tenting of the flesh that would signal a clavicle fracture. And while she hissed at the pressure, she gave no sudden reaction of severe pain in any one location. He buttoned her blouse back and straightened her clothing.

"Hairline fracture at worst, I think."

She nodded. "Thank you. Should have realized right away."

"Realized what?"

"The flowers. You'll see when you read it."

He saw her eyelids flutter as her energy flagged. He tucked his coat back around her. "Rest, Molly. Lestrade's here and I'll be right back." He rose to find a way around the madhouse to the morgue in order to retrieve that note.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Thank you very much for reading! Constructive criticism and Brit-picking are welcome. Diatribes against my ship or other flames are not.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: I don't own the BBC or "Sherlock" and I'm definitely not Moffat. Not Gatiss either, which would be more fun. Just playing with their toys.**

**Explanation: I've been following "Sherlock" here and there since it began, but series 3 found my shipper button and began pressing it repeatedly. This particular story is set between "The Blind Banker" and "The Great Game" and is full of future Sherlolly hints.**

**Expectations: Five (short) chapters of this are done. I think it will eventually run 7-10 chapters. I will update what I have every week, but once I hit Chapter 6 there may be a longer gap between updates. It's all about the work schedule.**

One glance at the florist's card told Sherlock that it was a likely dead end. He would ask Lestrade to take it just in case – it wouldn't be the first time a criminal got sloppy and left a partial fingerprint or let some tell-tale trick of handwriting show through a forgery. But he expected that the card had been lifted from the shop in question. The more likely scenario, if he was right and it was someone connected to Isabella Hatley, was that the flowers and pot had come from someone's estate and been assembled with the bomb in London.

He returned to the crowded hallways to find that Mycroft had come through: a group of men in blue coveralls were ferrying in large space heaters and raising the noise level even more. He slipped through to where Molly lay and found her huddled up, hands over her ears. Her face was tight with pain. He spotted Mike Stamford down the hall, seized Molly's chart, and made his way to him.

"Stamford, be a good fellow and sign Molly's release."

"Wait, what? Molly's injured?" He snatched the clipboard from Sherlock's hand and began to read.

"Hairline fracture of the collarbone at worst, but it's the concussion. She can't bear the noise levels or get a proper rest as long as she's in a draughty hallway. I'll take her home, get someone to keep an eye on her. There's really nothing more that can be done for her here."

Stamford looked up from the chart and nodded. "That's fair. Sign at the bottom."

"Me? Why?"

"You're her emergency contact here in London."

"I am?"

"Yeah. Have been for six months now." The doctor grinned at Sherlock's nonplussed look and handed him the chart and a biro from his coat pocket.

He recovered enough to scrawl a signature and drop the chart in a small pile on the table serving as a desk. He made his way back to Molly, who now had Lestrade sitting with her. Sherlock fished her coat and bag from where they had been stuffed under the stretcher.

"I've obtained her release. She'll rest much more comfortably away from here."

"All right. I can get a squad car so we can take her home."

"No need, I'll get a cab to my place. You have the wake to attend, after all."

"Your place?"

"Of course. She'll not go home as long as there's someone who wants her dead."

Molly drifted, dozing enough that the pain in her head and shoulder were muted, awake enough to be dimly aware of the world around her. She had finally begun to get warm under Sherlock's coat, then it had been removed and replaced with her own. She had been carried out in Sherlock's arms, her hood pulled up and her scarf masking her face from the cold, and put into a cab. She had managed to protest weakly, worried about Toby, but Sherlock had settled her against him and told her not to worry. He pulled out his mobile and reached around her to start texting, rather than move the arm supporting her.

**Retrieve card on Molly's desk. Check for fingerprints, begin handwriting analysis. Suspect actual shop dead end –SH**

**Molly staying with us. Will explain later. Go ask her upstairs neighbour to look after cat, pack some basics. Need paracetamol, ice packs –SH**

John stared at the words on his mobile, then shook his head. Just another day in the life when one lived with Sherlock Holmes.

He saved his writing and logged off. At least Molly's flat wasn't far off by cab and he could walk to the chemist before grabbing one.

**On my way. What's going on? – J**

As he entered the chemist's, he got a reply.

**Tell neighbour Molly was injured in Bart's explosion –SH**

_Explosion? What the hell?_ John dialled Sherlock's mobile.

To his surprise, Sherlock actually answered. Not to his surprise, Sherlock immediately began spouting off.

"Short version, the bomb at Bart's was meant for Molly because of a case some months back where she testified. She's staying with us where it's safer, she needs treatment for concussion. If you can monitor her for the next few hours while I track a few things down, I'll monitor her through the night. She can stay in my room. I'll take the couch."

John groped, trying to take it all in and form the questions multiplying in his mind.

"As it seems you have nothing to add, I'll see you back at 221B."

Sherlock rang off, leaving John staring at his phone with an open mouth. He was brought back to cognizance when a shopper tried to enter behind him and knocked into him. With a frustrated groan he pocketed the phone and headed for the aisle of pain relievers.

**Author's Note:** Thank you very much for reading! Constructive criticism and Brit-picking are welcome. Diatribes against my ship or other flames are not.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: I don't own the BBC or "Sherlock" and I'm definitely not Moffat. Not Gatiss either, which would be more fun. Just playing with their toys.**

**Explanation: I've been following "Sherlock" here and there since it began, but series 3 found my shipper button and began pressing it repeatedly. This particular story is set between "The Blind Banker" and "The Great Game" and is full of future Sherlolly hints.**

**Expectations: Five (short) chapters of this are done. I think it will eventually run 7-10 chapters. I will update what I have every week, but once I hit Chapter 6 there may be a longer gap between updates. It's all about the work schedule.**

* * *

Sherlock stood next to Lestrade, watching as a team swarmed over the house of Ellison Davies, prosecutor for the Crown. Davies was currently sequestered in a hotel, forbidden all items from his home until any possible booby traps had been identified. At Sherlock's direction, Lestrade had the team examining the wiring first.

"Why the wiring, Sherlock? Could be anything."

"Yes, but the murderer has been very careful to vary the methods of death. Dame Hillandale was almost certainly poisoned through leaving a contaminated pill in the bottle she always used. Lady Millbrook's car was probably tampered with to cause her to crash. Finnegan and Molly were the only ones attacked in ways that were obviously murder, which suggests that they were the last people on the murderer's list, that he was getting impatient to be done with it. Therefore whatever might have been done to Davies was set up much earlier, a trap made to look like a domestic accident. Something in this house is set up to cause that accident, something that Davies wouldn't come across for some time—"

There was a thud that shook the house and shouts from upstairs. Sherlock and Lestrade sprinted to the stairs.

They found several of the forensics team working swiftly but carefully to extricate their fallen co-worker from a pile of lumber and the remains of a very heavy steamer trunk that had been loaded to the brim with books.

Sherlock nodded his head. "Such as going up to the attic to discover a poorly-stored trunk bringing the entire stepladder and part of the ceiling down on top of him."

The injured man groaned as he was helped to his feet, supporting a broken arm. "I was off to the side before pulling down the ladder, just in case. I'd be dead if I'd been full under it."

Lestrade looked at the mess. "Well, at least we know nothing will explode this time."

* * *

Molly awoke when she felt her arm being shaken gently. She rolled to one side to sit up, ready to dutifully recite the alphabet reversed or her grandparents' birthdays or whatever John came up with this time to test her. She decided to get a jump on him. "Element number one is hydrogen, number two is helium, number three is lithium, four is—"

"Beryllium," a rich baritone interrupted her in amusement.

Molly's eyes snapped open. She was able to register Sherlock sitting beside her on his sinfully comfortable bed before closing them against a wave of dizziness.

He moved quickly to steady her, his hands gently cradling her head and lowering her to the pillows once more. "You sound as if you have all your faculties, but let's make sure. Atomic number seventy-nine?"

"Gold."

"And one hundred eight?"

"Um…hassium."

"Well done. How do you feel?"

"Dizzy. Thirsty. Head hurts."

She kept her eyes shut and listened as Sherlock went to the table John had set up with a carafe of water, glasses, and anything else he thought he might need. Water splashed into a glass, the carafe returned to the table, and Sherlock's footsteps sounded as he came back to the bed. He helped her to sit up and drink.

"Do you remember how long ago you took anything?"

She shook her head, but John called from the sitting room, "Six hours. She's due."

Sherlock fetched her more paracetamol and sat beside her once more as she sat up to take the pills. "Would you like to know more about what happened?"

The sudden reminder of the explosion made her flash back to the moment of being hurled into the wall in the waiting room and she swayed, clamping her lips shut as her stomach roiled. Sherlock immediately leaned forward to catch her. "Molly?"

"Who—how many were killed?"

He looked slightly confused and a little put out, but answered. "Four people died on the scene. I don't have information on anyone who might have succumbed to injuries later."

"Do…did you get any names?"

"No, but Lestrade could probably tell you tomorrow."

Molly nodded and swallowed, trying to stave off tears as she remembered Lucie, the one receptionist she knew by name. She would have been right by the bomb. She lay back and rolled onto her side. "Thank you, Sherlock."

He sensed the dismissal and left.

* * *

Sherlock sat in his chair and pressed his palms together, tapping his fingers against his lips. He could tell John was watching him over the screen to his laptop. After several minutes of silence, Sherlock stood and began pacing. He crossed the room, his speed increasing, until he was going too quickly for productive thought. He flung himself back into his chair and crossed his arms across his chest, looking like the world's biggest petulant toddler.

"What am I missing? Molly usually likes hearing me talk about cases. Why did she all but order me out?"

"Really, Sherlock? Think about it from her point of view. She's recovering from concussion and undoubtedly is feeling disconnected, fuzzy, like she can't quite grasp reality. She knows the bomb was meant for her, but it ended up killing other people, people she worked with. She's going to feel guilty over it—"

"Guilty? Whatever for? She didn't ask to be attacked for doing her job!"

"No, but this is Molly. She's going to feel that way. She'd have to, with a heart big enough to not only put up with you but actually enjoy your company. She's going to blame herself. We can tell her it's not so, but she's going to need some time before she believes it."

Sherlock was poised to continue arguing, but something in John's voice made him pause and look at his flatmate…his friend. John was speaking in a slightly lower register and his own posture had tensed up. This was the voice of experience, the voice of someone who had been in a situation like Molly's and had recovered. Or was still recovering.

Sherlock bowed to that experience and pulled out his phone to text Lestrade and get the names of the victims for Molly.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Thank you very much for reading! Constructive criticism and Brit-picking are welcome. Diatribes against my ship or other flames are not.


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: I don't own the BBC or "Sherlock" and I'm definitely not Moffat. Not Gatiss either, which would be more fun. Just playing with their toys.**

**Explanation: I've been following "Sherlock" here and there since it began, but series 3 found my shipper button and began pressing it repeatedly. This particular story is set between "The Blind Banker" and "The Great Game" and is full of future Sherlolly hints.**

**Apology: as I have said previously, this is the point I already had written when I began posting. I will do my best to get this story finished, but I will probably not be able to post weekly as I have been. Work is going at supersonic speed and until it slows down I won't have anywhere near the amount of time I want to write. The next chapter will appear as soon as it's done and beta'ed.**

* * *

Molly woke to the smell of hot tea and cinnamon. She sat up as John set down the tray and went to open the curtains to sunshine. She pushed her hair away from her face, relieved to note that she wasn't dizzy. The headache was much improved as well, more of a very sore spot where her skull had connected with the wall.

She looked over the inviting tray of tea and sticky buns, complete with a single rose stuck in a water glass. "John, you didn't have to do all this!"

"Oh, I didn't. Sherlock did. He was off to the shops the minute they opened. He is currently hovering over Mrs Hudson, who is much better at eggs and bacon than either of us." He reached into a pocket and pulled out a folded paper. "Sherlock texted Lestrade last night. These are the people who died and the ones in critical condition. Whenever you're ready—"

"Give it here, please." She held out a hand and John handed it to her without protest.

She frowned, having a little difficulty focusing on the slashing strokes of Sherlock's handwriting, but her heart leapt at seeing Lucie on the "critical" list rather than "deceased". She didn't recognise any of the names of the dead. "Do you think…could you call and ask after Lucie Winston?"

"Of course. Try and eat something." He set the paracetamol on the tray and went back into the sitting room.

She drank the tea, relishing its warmth, and had begun on one of the buns when Sherlock appeared with a plate. "John said you were awake. You should try some protein to go with that confection."

"Yes, Sherlock."

As he set the eggs and bacon on her tray, he noticed her empty teacup and shouted, "John, start a new pot of tea!" Molly winced at the sudden shift in volume and he saw it immediately. "Excuse me. Also, excuse me for not understanding last night, that you would be concerned about co-workers first. I got the list from Lestrade—"

"Yes, John gave it to me. He's following up about Lucie, she's the only person I know from reception. Thank you."

"I'll be leaving shortly to help Lestrade. He's waiting on a warrant to look into financial records of Isabella Hatley's family, see if we can trace any suspicious payments."

"You really think it had to do with that trial? It was ages ago." Molly tried the bacon and realized that she was indeed hungry.

"Nine months, and yes. The only thing that you all had in common was being involved in proving her guilt. And the murderer was very careful at first: Dame Hillandale and the woman who turned Crown's evidence were assumed to be accidents. The same would have been true for the prosecutor. It's only because someone got impatient and broke their method—the obvious booby trap for Finnegan, the bomb for you—that I was able to put it together.

"We've got Davies, the prosecutor, staying under guard in a hotel. Would I be correct in presuming that you would prefer staying here? John will be with you and if I need him Lestrade will arrange a police guard."

"Can't I go home?" Molly looked down, her hair spilling over her face.

Sherlock leaned forward and smoothed her hair back in order to regain eye contact. "It's too risky. While no names of victims have been released to the public, we don't know how the killer is getting information. You need to stay hidden until this is over."

She nodded at that.

"Don't want to lose my pathologist, after all."

John entered with a fresh pot of tea to find Sherlock and Molly looking at one another and smiling.

* * *

"Here, this could be it!" Sherlock's finger stabbed the faxed bank statement from one Reginald Bancroft, Isabella Hatley's grandfather. "Bancroft cashed in a large number of stocks on August 12, eight days after she committed suicide. The minute the money was in his account he withdrew almost all of it. We need to trace it."

Lestrade was already on his mobile. "Sally, you go to the bank. I'll send feelers out through our moles and see if they can find out who came into money around that time."

Sherlock snatched his coat from the rack. "I'll check my sources as well." He strode out of Lestrade's office and down to the street, heading for one of Missie's normal corners. She would put the word out to others in his network. Between his informants and Lestrade's, they ought to have a name or two to chase down within two days.

Which gave him plenty of time to stop at a bookseller's and pick up a few things for Molly.

* * *

Sherlock burst through the entrance to 221, swinging a Waterstone's bag in his hand. He hoped Molly would find something amusing in the chaotic selection of books and magazines. He paused, hearing two female voices coming from behind Mrs Hudson's open door.

"Mrs Hudson?"

"We're in here, Sherlock. Come have a cuppa with us."

Sherlock entered to find Mrs Hudson and Molly sitting at her table sharing tea. Molly had showered and pinned her damp hair up. She was dressed for lounging around the flat, in yoga pants and an oversize jumper.

"Sherlock, I am quite put out with you. Why did it take something as awful as a bomb for me to meet this lovely girl?" Mrs Hudson patted Molly's hand and rose to fetch an extra cup.

Sherlock noted that Molly's colour was not only better than during the night, she was turning pink from embarrassment. He held out the bag to her.

"It simply had not occurred to me, Mrs Hudson, that you would want to meet my pathologist. Since you often dislike hearing the gruesome details of my cases, I wouldn't have thought that you would want to hear about Dr Hooper's autopsies."

Mrs Hudson returned and playfully slapped at Sherlock's shoulder. "Nonsense. Anyone with proper eyes in his head can see that she's so much more than your pathologist!"

Sherlock watched as Molly went from pink to red and took refuge in the Waterstone's bag.

* * *

"I am most disappointed in you, Red. I was assured that you were one of the best."

The sweating man ran a hand through his ginger hair and pleaded with the voice on the disposable mobile. "I am! I just need a few more days!"

"You got impatient for the rest of your money. You got sloppy. Now Davies is under guard and my sources say Hooper survived the bomb. At this rate the job could wind up costing me money instead of earning me a profit."

"I can do it! I can finish it! Just give me another chance!" Red held his breath, knowing that the voice on the other side would almost certainly arrange to have him killed if the response was negative.

"You have forty-eight hours to find Hooper and eliminate her."

* * *

**Author's Note:** Thank you very much for reading! Constructive criticism and Brit-picking are welcome.


End file.
